My uncle had an ant farm
where he raised a lot of ants.
He taught a few to play guitar,
he taught a few to dance.
Another one, or maybe two,
he tutored on the ant kazoo.
He bought them little xylophones,
and teeny-tiny slide trombones,
and itsy-bitsy baritones.
He trained a few to beat a drum,
and all the rest learned how to hum,
until at last they had a band
parading in the ant farm sand.
And yet no matter where you stood,
or where you put your ear,
those little ants were much too small
for anyone to hear.
© Kenn Nesbitt